The Rookie
by unutterably stupid
Summary: The new kid on the block, is she really too good to be true?
1. Chapter 1

The Rookie

Time: 1967

Place: Various

Rating: T Minimum.

Pairings: Unknown

Synopsis: Only a handful of agents went through Survival School with better marks. Why does everyone seem to think she's a THRUSH mole when no one questioned the others?

Round One

"That's her."

She could sense eyes upon her as she completed the current hand-to-hand combat session. The only woman to go through with this class, there had been problems. The first was her assignment to the secretarial/administrative assistant training. After two days, some major catty reactions and someone finally realizing one of their agents in training was missing, it was her fault that she had not reported correctly.

Reining in her explosive temper she tried sweet reason to point out that no one listened when she tried to tell them they had her in the wrong cohort and that she had been trying, through channels, to rectify the mistake. Points off for attitude and lack of success. She bit her tongue and took the icy reprimand. She could do more good inside the organization than outside. Or so she kept reminding herself as she went through the grueling training.

She aimed for just short of perfection. Ninety-eight percent would get her through. No one expected, or as she overheard, wanted, a woman to slam through the school with perfect marks. The nearly legendary April Dancer, the first woman to get through the Survival School training and make field agent, was tough, savvy and did not make perfect marks. Sometimes she wondered if Ms. Dancer had also held back; protecting the fragile egos of the Neanderthals around her. No, that was probably insulting the Neanderthals.

Final evaluations were here. The Chief Enforcement Agents of the five continental offices were on hand to pick and chose their new bright lights and cannon fodder. She turned, after an appropriate bow to recognize her teacher, to check out who was here. Interesting, the tall dark haired man was the epitome of the James Bond mold of agent. That was a $300.00 suit, the shirt looked freshly laundered and ironed and his shoes were brightly reflective, the sort of shine that only a good shoe man could put on leather. Napoleon Solo, she dug his name out of the recesses of her brain. Number 1 Section 2, New York. Rumor had it the New York head of operations was grooming this one to be his successor.

The slightly smaller blond to his left drew her eye. So this was the Russian. Rumor had it he was a KGB plant. Noting the close proximity to Solo, she read something different. No, Kuryakin might have started his career with the UNCLE as a KGB mole, but she doubted that he was still all that loyal to his superiors there. UNCLE had too much to offer for a man of his decided talents and intelligence. He was the one she had to worry about. Those quick blue eyes missed very little.

Solo sauntered over to speak to the training instructor as the rest of the class moved back, many of the men eyeing the New York CEO and measuring themselves against the nearly legendary agent. Kuryakin followed him discreetly, his eyes never quite still, taking in all of them, analyzing what he saw and felt against the files. His gaze flicked across her and then came back. Undaunted, she met his gaze coolly, or as coolly as she could, given her sweat drenched status. Even her long black braid was soaked.

Gabe DeMarten cleared his throat for attention. "Class, one more round. Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin would like to watch you in action." He quickly paired the men and then moved to work with her.

Illya stepped forward. "Perhaps with a different partner?" he suggested.

She regarded him curiously. What the hell was he up to? She waited for the decision. DeMarten yielded to the field agent. She fell into stance, tired but not too tired to go another round. Her opponent took his position. Silence reigned for several minutes while the pairs sized each other up. She waited for him to make the first move. He was apparently waiting for her to do so. After a flurry of combat around them, she chuckled. One eyebrow raised in response.

"We're going to get tired of standing here after a while," she pointed out mildly.

"You could move."

"So could you."

"Not worried?"

"About..?"

He struck swiftly, deadly and found air. For a few moments, there was a flurry of strikes and counter strikes until he grabbed at that dangling braid as she passed him. Without stopping, she pivoted and stepped in with a half force head butt that delivered full force would have done a great deal more damage than making him see stars. He released the braid and rubbed his chin.

"Not bad. A knife …"

"Should not remain in the hands of one's opponent." She bowed respectfully in the Oriental manner, her right hand cupping her left fist.

"You've trained in the Orient?"

She flipped him a grin. "Should be in my file."

"You're too good."

That got a laugh. "OK, I'll 'fess up. I'm 102, born in another dimension and I've been covert off and on for the last 70 years." The look was priceless as he went stone faced. She leaned forward. "That's a joke, Mr. Kuryakin," she added and stepped back. "Now, I'm for a shower and some food. If that's all, Mr. DeMarten?"

DeMarten nodded his dismissal.

Round Two

The laundry room was deserted except for one lone soul doing some last minute, before graduation, washing. The slender figure, clad in sweats, lay across the top of the washers, a newspaper over her face, oblivious to her surroundings. It was a pity she was so unaware.

The gun under his nose let him know she was not nearly as sound asleep as he had thought. "I am so tired of people fucking with my laundry and my beauty sleep," she grumbled as she pulled the paper away from her face. Recognition set in. She came to a seated position, the gun never wavering for a moment. "What do you want? How much more badly can I screw up my graduation review?"

Illya smiled at her. "I was unaware your review was in question, Ms. Yuconovich." His assurance did not make her relax, any more than his smile managed to touch his arctic gaze.

"Pull the other one." She did make the gun disappear as she waited to see what he had to say.

"You're too good to be true," he said in Russian.

"That's crap," she responded in the same language. "I'm very, very good, but too good to be true would be 100 percent in everything. I am far from that average."

"Who did you study with?"

"Kung fu?" She shrugged her shoulders. "I never knew his name. I called him Master. He called me Student. It was all very peculiarly formal."

"Convenient."

"His death wasn't." She met his gaze head on.

"How do I know you're not lying?"

Her eyes crinkled up as she grinned. "Part of the problem with hanging around with spies is that the truth is never close to the surface," she shot back in English. "What do you want?"

"Perhaps you should answer the question, Miss Yuconovich."

"What do I want? I want to help. I want to put my talents to use where they'll do the most good. I'm not a sit at home type. I'm not very good as a secretary. I am very good at facing problems and solving them."

"Have you killed?"

"Nowhere the US laws can object about it, never where it wasn't the only answer, and nothing that can be proved anywhere." She prayed he could read the honesty in that answer. It was all true. For a long moment he regarded her with that peculiarly Kuryakin stare. A small nod was his only acknowledgement.

"You will be watched."

"Well, duh!" Oh, how easily that tripped off her tongue. She could have kicked herself a moment later, but nothing of that read in her face. She smiled brightly and turned to deal with moving her laundry from the washer to one of the nearby dryers. She berated herself mentally as she did so. The last thing that man needed was unnecessary ammunition.

She heard him move away as she twirled the dial setting the dryer for time and heat. As the unit came on, she risked a peek past her arm in time to see him vanish out the door. Nothing as obvious as a sigh of relief escaped her. She hadn't come this far to do herself in now.

Interlude 1

"Well?"

Illya shrugged his shoulders in answer.

"So we pass her?" Napoleon pushed.

He looked over the dossier. Everything was in order. Everything checked out. If she was THRUSH, she was so confident in her cover there was no way to shake her here. He closed the file and frowned slightly as he met his partner's questioning gaze. "We pass her. We can't do anything else."

That wasn't strictly true. They could kill her, feed her the amnesia drug or simply fail her. Any of which would be a shame is she was genuine, and there was nothing but a gut feeling to say that she wasn't. The problem was: his gut wasn't saying she wasn't UNCLE material; it was saying that she was lying about something.

He met Napoleon's look again and shrugged again. "I can't pinpoint it. Something is 'off'. I have no idea what."

"Two options: Assign her to New York or assign her to the smallest, least likely to encounter problems office we have."

"New York."

"You really are expecting trouble."

Illya sighed and shook his head. "Keep your friends close. Keep your enemies closer. Old Russian saying."

While the Russian was frequently cryptic, this was going interesting places even for him. Napoleon looked over the dossier, nodded and made his recommendation that Cheri Christiana Yuconovich be assigned to the New York office through her probationary period.


	2. Chapter 2

Round Three

Napoleon didn't know why he hadn't seen it coming when it finally hit. He walked back to his office carrying a familiar dossier and trying to find a way to gently break it to his partner that they were going to be saddled with New York's newest field agent. As he walked in the door of the office they shared, it became obvious that there wasn't a gentle way to break the news and it was no longer news.

His eyes slid appreciatively over the black cashmere hugged slender figure of Agent Yuconovich. She was seated on the couch, her legs crossed at the knee. Black suede leather boots clung to her calves, stopping just short of the hem of her skirt. Unlike the last time he saw her, the silken blue-black hair was caught back in a simple silver clasp. On the whole, he liked what he saw.

It was obvious from the poker face his partner wore that he was unimpressed with the lady's looks. Illya was steadfastly working on the pile of reports on his desk and ignoring his company. A part of his mind was berating the rest of it for not seeing this complication coming. It was difficult enough keeping up with Napoleon when the lures were on the opposition side or were innocently enough entangled in the situation. Having this woman here, in their midst, so to speak …. Bah. Napoleon would be impossible.

Cheri rose to shake hands with Napoleon, casting a curious look over to the taciturn Russian who remained immersed in his work. She turned back to New York's CEO and smiled. "Mr. Solo," she finished greeting him and retrieved her hand. "Mr. Kuryakin seems less than pleased with my assignment to your partnership." Better to face the issue now than to let it build up steam.

"All new agents are assigned to partners," Napoleon assured her, ignoring the fact that normally it was one seasoned agent to one rookie, not two to one.

"So I understand. This should be interesting. Anything I can do to help?" She gestured to the pile of folders on his desk and managed to include the ones Illya was working on.

"Can you type?"

She swallowed the instant retort that rose to her lips. Asking the CEO if he ever actually read the dossiers on his desk was a bit too insulting for now. "Yes. I'm too cheap to pay someone to type my papers so I learned how. Mind you, if there aren't any notes to work from, my fingers tend to invent flights of fancy …" She let the thought trail off. If he was willing to take a chance on letting her type the reports, then any embellishments, or omissions, were his responsibility.

"Dictation?"

"If you mean shorthand, no. Never interested. I was definitely the "go in the field and dig the mummy out of its grave" type as opposed to the "oh, here, let me fetch coffee and type up your notes" sort. Didn't make me a lot of friends among the big names at the university, of course, but it kept my ego in tact."

"You certainly seem to have that," Napoleon shot back a little more sharply than intended. He tried one of his warm smiles to counteract his comment and received a gleaming one in return. Good, the lady didn't take umbrage at blunt comments. "I know everything's in your dossier, but I'd like answers for myself. Why UNCLE?"

"It's international. Actions are judged on …. good and evil seems a little basic, but the organization doesn't let ideology get in the way of common sense… most of the time."

"You think it does sometimes?"

"How the hell do I answer that?" She shook her head slightly and gave a half grin. "No one is perfect. No matter how much you believe in an ideal, sometimes your background is going to get the better of you. I suspect that not everyone in this office is happy to have Mr. Kuryakin here … or wasn't in the beginning. I've heard the rumors of KGB background. I know there are some people even in the UNCLE who are phobic … Russian phobic, Communist phobic, because they were raised to be that way. That's hard to put aside, even with the best will in the world." She stopped for breath. "Of course, my dad was 1st generation Russian emigrant, so they're not quite so alien where I'm concerned." She looked down at her feet for a moment and shook her head before miming kicking something out from under them, then peeped back up at Napoleon before lifting her head. "Sorry, I occasionally develop a soapbox at the oddest moments."

Without meaning to, Napoleon found he responded to her devastating directness. He wasn't sold on her by any means, but he also wasn't as inclined to condemn as he might have been earlier. "So we're not perfect."

"No. We're not."

He noted the slight emphasis on the "we" as she agreed with him. "Pull up a chair, pick a file, start asking questions."

The morning passed swiftly as Cheri asked astute questions and developed a knack for knowing where more detail was needed and where "the usual" could be filled in on the report. By noon the pile of files on both desks was minimized. Napoleon signed off on all the finished reports, which would then be typed up by the typing pool rather than the new kid on the field agent block.

Ever the debonair and thoughtful, Napoleon suggested a shared lunch. He wasn't surprised when Illya demurred, noting the last couple of files on his desk. Cheri's "thanks, but no thanks" did surprise him. "Turning down your superior?" The words and tone were mild, but the dark eyes were sharp.

"Shopping. I have a new loft to outfit and time has not been something I have a great deal of, Mr. Solo. I would at least like drapes on the windows, so I'm off and running."

"Hold on a minute."

"Yes?" He handed her a note card with a name and address on it. Her eyebrows rose in inquiry. "This is?"

"The place I purchased my last set of drapes for my apartment. Reasonable prices. Good quality. Worth taking a look."

She regarded him thoughtfully, weighing the pros and cons of accepting his help in this matter. "Thank you."

**Interlude**

"Still suspicious?"

"Of course."

Napoleon laughed. "Good. She's a hard worker." He nodded to his nearly pristine desk.

"She is … what's the word?"

"Brown-nosing?"

Illya snorted in response. "Not that bad. But knows which side the bread has been buttered."

"That's an odd observation."

The Russian's frown deepened, then faded. "She is … adaptable."

"You don't trust her." Napoleon was trying hard to fathom what Illya perceived about the new agent that he did not.

The younger man leaned back in his chair with a shake of his head and relaxed. "I don't know. All I know is that she is not what she says. There is not just – just the case of who and what we are, but something more?" He knew he wasn't making a lot of sense to his partner. Still, Cheri put him on edge and he wasn't certain he wished to know enough to find out whether he should accept her or not. He struggled with that very confused thought, translated it into his mother tongue and was no more satisfied with that than with the English. "Maybe I'm seeing things where there is nothing to see."

"And maybe you're seeing things no one else is," Napoleon countered. "You frequently do, my friend."

'My friend.' The words distracted Illya from his quandary over Cheri. There was no accounting for how much that simple phrase from his partner made his life warmer. He hadn't come to the US looking for friends. Caring made life so much more dangerous- and so much more worth living.

Round Four

Napoleon entered his office the next day to find a single outstanding deep indigo Dutch Iris in a crystal bud vase and a thank you note neatly on the corner of his desk. He cocked an eyebrow at his partner who actually smiled.

"She said your information was excellent and while it would be a week before the drapes are delivered, they are exactly as she desired them." This was accompanied by a delicate snort. "Drapes."

Napoleon smiled at that. Illya's apartment was almost as Spartan as his outlook on life could be. Food was fuel, an apartment was someplace to be between assignments and interesting things going on in R draperies for the windows were decadent and bourgeois when dime store curtains would do as well. Illya only had two windows to worry about in his apartment. Napoleon suspected that bricks over the one in his bedroom would have suited him just as well, eliminating a point of intrusion.

"Some of us like the view from our windows, but don't necessarily want to look at it all the time."

"Some of you are decadent, capitalist …"

"… Bourgeois, rising on the backs of the downtrodden proletariat," Cheri's lighter voice finished the sentence, if not necessarily his teasing thoughts.

"Da," he agreed, mentally frowning at himself for playing along.

Cheri's chuckle was almost contagious. "Then again, when you have floor to ceiling windows some artist wanted for good Eastern morning light, you have to do something, and wasting perfectly good sheets on a window is not my idea of wonderful. Good morning, gentlemen. What's on the agenda for today?"

Napoleon answered the intercom, which answered Cheri's question. Mr. Waverly's secretary requested their presence in Waverly's office.

Cheri followed her supervisors into the deep-carpeted office. It was high tech and something of a let down at the same time. Nothing of this showed in her face as she took a seat slightly away from Napoleon and Illya who were both all business. Waverly briefly outlined odd sightings on the Maine coast. The small, abandoned town of Innsmouth was the sight of some strange lights in the sky, odd malodorous clouds that rolled across the countryside heading inland and a great deal of truck activity. All of this pointed to something that needed investigating.

"It should not be too difficult to determine whether THRUSH is involved. Do not hesitate to call for back up if you find the need, gentlemen. The natives are reclusive in this area, and sometimes hostile."

As they walked back to the office with the two men discussing the assignment, Cheri was very silent. As the rookie on the case, this was not unusual. On the other hand, Illya noticed what he thought was a look of concern.

"Problem?" he asked.

"Uhm, probably not. I probably just read too much weird fiction."

That got a look of enquiry from Napoleon. "Weird fiction?"

"Lovecraft. Wrote for Weird Tales and other sort of pulp strange fiction presses in the '30's. A lot of his stuff is set in Maine. I didn't think there was a real Innsmouth."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Probably nothing." The response was too swift and too bright, accompanied with one of those looks that said 'I hope."

Napoleon decided to dig deeper. Not that he thought there was anything to her concerns. "What did this Lovecraft write?"

"Well, that depended. Specific to Innsmouth: odd South Pacific cults worshipping ancient inhuman sea deities. Rumors of extreme miscegenation. Sacrifices of various sorts. The usual."

"We win?" he asked with a knowing quirk of a grin.

"No." Her response was matter-of-fact. She met his eyes and then Illya's with a shrug and grin of her own. "Like I said, too much weird fiction. Town's probably just in an area that's fished out." Or not, she added mentally. "So, fly into Bangor and motor down? Or take the train? Or …"

"Research first, Miss Yuconovich," the CEO chided gently.

She saluted. "What do you need?"

It was nice having a personal go-for.


	3. Chapter 3

Round Five

Cheri was not happy about the trip. Maine was not her idea of a wonderful state. She hated cold and wet. Right now, all of Maine seemed to be the epitome of those states. Bundled in a fur-lined trench coat over wool trousers, she scrunched into her seat and tried to be as unobtrusive as possible as they rolled past Arkham and the Miskatonic University campus. The chill outside crawled into her coat with her putting a definite damper on anything approaching enthusiasm for this outing. She kept telling herself there was absolutely nothing wrong with Arkham or the University or with a defunct fishing village called Innsmouth that could not be explained by a THRUSH intrusion.

Unfortunately, there was a frazzled part of her mind that kept nodding and going "Uh-huh. Yeah. Right." in a most annoyingly most skeptical manner. That and the term "weirdness magnet" kept running through her head. Meanwhile, neither of her mentors felt it was appropriate to share the driving with her. Was it because she was female? Or was it because Illya Kuryakin was unwilling to let go of his hostility?

"Does your writer have anything to say about this locality?" Napoleon asked out of the blue. Or gray, given the consistency of the cloud cover above them.

"Arkham? Home of the Miskatonic which has more tomes of forbidden and archaic knowledge locked in its restricted stacks than any other university on the planet?"

"Forbidden?"

"I could reel off the titles, but I can't recall half of them. Starts with the dreaded Necronomicon of the mad Arab Al-Hazred and gets worse. Most of them are translations of older texts. Some are annotated. All of them are pretty much inimical to human kind. And a major state mental institution is here."

She didn't miss the look that went between the two men. She was missing something here. Something happened or they found out something while she was researching the best way to get where they were going. Illya was openly much more hostile than he had been. Napoleon, well … she wasn't certain. He wasn't any warmer, but he wasn't any cooler either. She wished she knew what they'd found and then unwished the wish.

They arrived on the outskirts of Innsmouth as the clouds burst forth with a major downpour. Cheri went through a litany of cuss words in every language she could think in. None of them passed her lips. She didn't want to shock anyone, now did she? They peered out at the grimy, dead looking village. The rain wasn't making it look any better.

"So, how obvious do we want to be?" she finally asked. Both men turned to look at her. "Well … sometimes the best way to find out what's going on is to… be the goat."

"We don't sacrifice our agents."

"You don't rescue me, I will haunt you. OK?" The grin that went with this assurance lightened the atmosphere for a moment.

Napoleon looked at his partner. "Ready to get wet?"

The two men vacated the car leaving Cheri to strand herself in the middle of town if that seemed appropriate. They headed directly for cover as Cheri clambered into the front seat, put the car in gear and puttered on into the deserted village. The first thing they both noticed was the smell. Even inside one of the better-preserved buildings there was a smell of death and decay. They exchanged uncomfortable looks and moved on, keeping as much to damp but not rain soaked interiors as possible.

The fourth building they entered was the worst of the lot. The walls were covered from the roof down with a black mold. Illya took a look at the interior and balked at entering. Napoleon cocked an eyebrow upward. With a look of disgust Illya just shook his head. Napoleon leaned toward him. "Tovarish?"

With a deep breath and a shudder, Illya quietly advised that the mold was potentially deadly. Napoleon eyed the furry looking growth. "OK. Next building?" They moved on.

Behind them, a section of wall pulled back and slid aside. Four men in decontamination suits moved through the exposed opening. Once outside, they pulled up the faceplates, breathing cleaner air. They muttered among themselves and moved out toward the countryside with a strange shambling gait.

In the abandoned village square, Cheri stopped the car and sat, waiting. What she could see of the village gave her the creeps. She was having trouble believing that even THRUSH would base a project here. A patch of clear appeared between her and the seawall at the harbor. She frowned as she recognized weathered masts rising into the air beyond the drop to the water. They left their boats? Fishermen left their boats? She had trouble processing that concept.

A second thought took hold. What if they weren't really gone? She shook her head to clear the cobwebs that were gumming up the thought processes and considered the view again. What if THRUSH was using stage dressing? That made more sense than figuring on monsters and mayhem. Well, monsters anyway.

As the squall blew further inland leaving behind a dripping set of dilapidated buildings, Cheri grabbed the camera she brought for cover and stepped out of the car. The 35mm in her hand felt odd as she took several shots she was certain would be far too dark to print. Then she threw herself into the "freelance reporter" act and moved around the square looking for interesting or quaint sights to photograph. Twenty minutes later her bold rummaging in the trash for something to photograph bore fruit. It wasn't exactly the sort she wanted, but it was human.

A shadow fell across where she was rummaging and she looked up into the depthless black eyes of Royke Darnall. Oh, Fuck! was her first thought. The rest degenerated from there. She smiled brightly. "Hi! Damn, you gave me a fright! There's not supposed to be anyone in here! I'm Cheri Yuconovich .." She babbled. As she did, the scary look softened to one of boredom. The shark was buying it. ".. I thought this would make a good photo essay. The timelessness of fishing, the way modern life is cutting out older ways of living, that sort of thing," she burbled.

"You should leave."

"What? I mean, why? The town's deserted … well, except for me and you."

"It's not safe."

She looked confused. Her wide-eyed, innocent look took in both Darnall and the buildings around them. "Oh, you mean the buildings. I wasn't going inside. I mean, that's just creepy, in a sad sort of way. Not the sort of thing I was looking for, y'know."

The shark eyes met hers directly; the chiseled planes of his facing looking like flesh colored stone. "It's not safe," he repeated in the same sort of monotone. "You should go."

"Right-o! Going now." She stood up, dusted off the front of her coat, gave him a bright smile and turned toward the car. She was relieved when he didn't make a grab for her. Sliding into the driver's seat, she turned the key in the ignition as she pulled the door closed beside her. Nothing. She gave the engine some gas, turned the key again and nothing. Shall we go for Nada 3, she asked herself and tried once more before reaching for the inside hood release.

She took a deep breath and stepped out of the car. Odd smell, she thought. A mixture of decay, death, the sort of mucuousy stuff on the scales of fish … she quickly derailed that train and opened the hood to look at the engine. For just a moment, she wondered where all the hoses were. This engine looked way too simple for a new car. Quickly checking coil wire, spark plugs and battery cables, she determined that there was nothing wrong with the connections she could examine.

What really spooked her as she frowned at the car was hearing the halting steps of Darnall approaching. She'd expected him to come over, but silently, like the experienced assassin she knew him to be. Instead he was making noise. Quiet noise, but noise. She looked around at him, an exasperated look on her face. "You'd think they'd keep rentals in better repair. You can bet they are going to hear about this. Is there a phone … ?"

His hand closed on her upper arm like a vise clamp. "Hey…" she pulled away and was rewarded with the clamp tightening. "Excuse me?"

"Come with me."

"Look, I know you're trying to help, but … ow! You're hurting me …"

He turned back toward the building, dragging her along with him. "Come with me."

"I'm coming, I'm coming! Honest. You don't have to break my arm … Leggo!" she snapped. She was surprised when he stopped. For a moment she thought he might actually release her, but no, he just frowned as though in thought and then continued forward.

"Hey! That doesn't look safe!" she objected loudly as they neared a building badly in need of repair even compared to the others surrounding it. The door hung from one hinge. Black stains that were resolving into some sort of mold as they drew nearer ran halfway down the walls. Something about mold tickled in the back of her mind as he drew her inexorably closer to that door.

He stopped again, drew out a relatively clean handkerchief and handed it to her. "Cover your nose and mouth," he whispered. For just a moment, the flat opaque gaze deepened into something human. It was gone just as swiftly.

Taking him at his word, Cheri held the cloth over her lower face as they entered the building. She took care not to touch anything furry with mold as she fought off a wave of terror-induced panic. Dammit, she was a trained agent. She could do this. She just hoped her mentors were somewhere close enough to be of help when the time came for action.

What was she thinking? Napoleon and Illya were the best. Of course, they wouldn't sacrifice a shiny new … pawn .. would they?

Interlude

Napoleon and Illya had a clear view of the action in the square. Neither was happy with the finale of Cheri being marched into the building.

"I don't like the look of that."

"No." Illya agreed with his partner's summation. He didn't like the visual he had of the new agent trying to pull free and not succeeding. Having sparred with her, he knew what she was capable of doing. The man was very strong to have led her away that easily. "So, we go in."

"We don't have proof that there's anything illegal going on." Napoleon was trying to be reasonable in the face of Illya's reactions to the mold.

"Then we need to get the proof." He regarded the building into which Cheri had vanished somberly. "And get our rookie back."

Round Six A

Inside the building it was dark. Cheri held the handkerchief over her nose and mouth, hoping her eyes would adjust before she found something to break an ankle on. Darnall walked straight to the far wall. A portion slid back and sideways. Cheri's thoughts were unrepeatable in polite company. The deeper she went, the less she liked the look of what was going on here and the creepier it became. Just what she always wanted, to be one of the lead investigators in Lovecraft based horror movie. Not.

The stairway on the other side of the wall went down in the approved horror tradition. Darnall's grip on her arm was not loosening. Another door slid away opening up into a huge cavern of a room with balconies and catwalks festooned around the walls and across the great open area. In the center was a huge, clear-sided vat of something translucent and gelid. Over to the far side was a bank of consoles with monitor screens and brightly blinking lights.

There were people all over the area, most of them moving at that deliberate shuffle she'd noted in Darnall. The eye-drawing exception was a woman clad in an exotic robe that crossed Chinese embroidery opulence with the fabric expanse of an Arabic abba. Her gestures were expansive. Her lank dark hair was piled atop her head in wild arabesques. Heavy eyeliner enhanced her wide-set, large dark eyes while her teeth were granted a pale gleam by her carmine red lips. She looked like a fantasy vampire with delusions.

"What are you doing in here?" Contrary to expectations, her voice was shrill, nasal and grating on the ear.

"Her car did not start."

There was a sudden silence and Cheri found she was the magnet for every eye in the place, some of them less than sane looking. "Damn those rental car places. They're supposed to take better care of their product, y'know. I'm Cheri," she chattered, starting down the stairs only to be brought up short by the hand still clamped on her arm.

The woman moved toward the stairway with an odd gliding motion that raised Cheri's hackles, or would have had she been a wolf. As it was, there was the incredible sensation of having the hair on the back of her head lift slightly. Restrained from moving, she waited for the woman to mount the stairs. Instead, the other entered an ornate lift that rose to the side of the catwalk/balcony that branched away from the landing where they stood. She stepped out onto the landing and held out a hand to Cheri.

Darnall's hand slipped from her arm then as the oddly articulated fingers of the other woman's hand clutched Cheri's. The UNCLE agent flicked a glance down and then up. This had to be a dream. The woman's fingers carried an extra joint each; her wide eyes were protuberant, regarding Cheri with a fixed intensity that made the agent want to stab something into them.

"Come with me."

"I am getting fucking tired of people saying that," Cheri hissed. The man still beside her started at the venom in her low voice. Unfortunately, where Darnall was strong, this woman was stronger.

"I am Cornelia de Whateil. You are the one for whom we have waited. Come. This way. You are perfect." With unnatural strength she pulled the agent along with her.

As they reached the center of the catwalk, Cheri finally found purchase to really balk at being dragged along. Below her was the tank. She had a very bad feeling about being on the catwalk above the vat of whatever that stuff was. She threw out a free hand and grabbed for a support. Cornelia continued forward, pulling steadily. Cheri thought her arm was gong to pull out of the socket before the woman finally figured out that her unwilling companion had stopped.

"What are you doing? Foolish woman. Immortality awaits you. Come."

The strident voice echoed inside her head for a moment, then she shook it and kicked out at the other woman. "No!" She pulled her hand free, leaving some skin behind. Gaining the freedom to move at will again, Cheri struck out with all the force she could muster, knocking Cornelia back against the railing where she flailed for a moment before regaining her balance.

Her lips writhed away from sharp, white teeth in a travesty of a smile. "You are a fool," she repeated herself. "I grant you greatness and you pull away. You do not understand …"

"Oh, I get, bitch," Cheri shot back. "You have some demented idea about that vat and my insertion into it. I don't drown for anyone. I don't get sacrificed for any reason and I sure as hell do not volunteer for THRUSH experiments. Got that?"

"You defy me?" The THRUSH, if that's what she was, became angry. "You, pitiful mortal, defy me?"

"Yeah. You got a problem with that?"

Cornelia flashed forward, wrapping her hands around Cheri's neck and then arching backwards, pulling Cheri away from the railing and further toward the center of the catwalk. "You are the only one with a problem."

Several shots echoed through the cavernous room. Cornelia looked to see who dared interrupt her. Had her opponent had the breath, she'd have cheered. UNCLE to the rescue, came the frivolous thought as she clawed at the hands around her throat and sought an opening to damage her opponent. One hand came loose. Cheri pulled back and then launched forward. Oh shit, was the next thought as her move slid both of them halfway through the railings to dangle above the vile looking stuff below.

Cheri grabbed desperately for one of the supports and caught it, leaving her stretched between Cornelia and the support. The other woman was remarkably heavy. Now her other shoulder felt like it was being pulled out of the socket. She looked down into the other woman's eyes and recoiled. "You want up? You're gonna have to do the work, bimbo."

"Up? Don't be foolish. Down is the only way to go. Come with me …" There was a seductive tone to her voice.

"Like hell!"

On the floor beneath them, Napoleon and Illya were chivying the men below across the floor away from the vat. Both of them thought it odd that not one of their opponents was carrying a gun, or if they were, bothering to use them. All of them shambled toward the walls except the man who had grabbed Cheri.

Once the lot of them had been told to stay where they were, the two men tried to figure out the fastest way to get to the fighting women where they dangled from the swaying catwalk.

"The stairway .." they said in unison with mirror nods as they started across the floor.

Cornelia clawed her way back onto the catwalk, in spite of her stated destination of the vat below them. "You have a destiny!" she screeched, her fingers stretching and hooking like a bird of prey's talons.

Cheri defended herself, wishing she could find enough time to ditch the trench coat that was seriously hampering her movements. The catwalk was seriously unsteady beneath her feet as she dodged and threw slamming fists that kept missing her sinuous opponent. Head ringing from a tremendous slap, Cheri fumbled for her gun feeling like she was underwater. True to form for the day, the gun fumbled right out of her hand, fell to the catwalk, skittered between the two of them and tumbled off into the vat with a viscous plopping sound. It floated on the surface looking tiny and forlorn.

Napoleon and Illya hit the catwalk, guns at the ready, moving cautiously forward. "It's over," Napoleon called.

"No! It is only beginning!" Cornelia lunged at Cheri, grabbing her hand and sinking her teeth into the wrist.

Cheri swore, cocked her other fist back and slammed it into the strangely leering face. The teeth came out of her hand, a look of horror crossing Cornelia's face that apparently had nothing to do with the fist that rocked her head back. She spit blood and screeched, backing away and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"She's not the one!" she screamed and glared around wildly, her gaze falling on the Russian. "She's not the one," she repeated, staring into Illya's bright gaze. "You … you …"

"I don't think so." Cheri spun her around and slammed a flat palm into her face, knocking her backward off her feet.

Cornelia flailed for a moment, losing her balance a second time and pitching over the railing, her robe twisting around one of the supports and pulling away from the body beneath. Tangled in the fabric, she came to a halt a couple of feet below the walkway. Instinct sent Cheri to her knees, reaching for the woman. There was a ripping sound as once again the THRUSH grabbed Cheri. This time she pulled and Cheri lost her grip, slipping off the walk. Napoleon's grab came fractionally too late to keep her from plunging past Cornelia who lashed out with a kick that somehow connected. Consciousness ebbing, she landed flat, face down in the translucent goo. The landing knocked the wind out of her with an ugly sort of gurgle. Darkness closed in and took her down.

"Cheri!" Napoleon threw his partner a look as he tried to pull Cornelia up onto the catwalk. The robe ripped as Illya turned and dashed for the stairway behind him. .

Cornelia smiled broadly, missing the fact that she was farther out the catwalk than Cheri had been. She fell as the fabric parted, landing half on the walkway surrounding the top of the tank. Her face froze as her neck and back broke, depriving her of the survival she had clearly expected. The body then fell slowly off the walkway to the floor.

Napoleon knelt there for a moment, knowing she was dead and suspecting that Cheri was also. Illya was almost to the floor when he threw caution to the wind, tossed Illya his gun and dove into the stuff slowly dragging Cheri down into it. He hit with a major splopping noise. The stuff was like half solidified Jell-O. He dragged his arms up and worked on swimming across the couple of feet separating him from Cheri's sinking form. It was something like working his way across a bog or quick sand.

He reached into the goo, pulling Cheri's head up out of the stuff. As he had thought, she wasn't breathing. A pole appeared at his side. Illya was kneeling on the walkway holding the other end of some sort of tool. Napoleon took the offered help gratefully, hooking one arm around Cheri's shoulders to keep her head above the stuff they were slowly sinking into.

A second pair of hands appeared to help him out of the vat, and to pull Cheri's limp body up as well. He met the black eyes of the man Cheri knew as Darnall. There was more life in them than Cheri had seen. Slowly, he seemed to be coming back to whoever he was under normal circumstances.

"She helped," he answered the unspoken question obliquely.

"She's dead."

"She's not breathing," Illya corrected as he turned her over and applied the correct technique for getting water out of a borderline drowning victim. Just as he was about to give up, she coughed and spewed up a quantity of the stuff she'd fallen into. He held her as she hacked and choked and spit up as much as she could, taking short, painful breaths in between.

"Fuck," she finally enunciated hoarsely. She blinked and tried to sit up. Illya helped her to do so. She caught Napoleon's shocked look and tried to laugh, which immediately turned into a choking fit. Finally, a bit red in the face, she asked him not to look at her like that or he'd set her off again.

That got a smile.

"Did we win?" she asked huskily.

"I think so. At least, they're not fighting us."

"Good. Ow. It hurts to breathe."

"We'll get you out of here. You're friend helped rescue you." Napoleon gestured to the THRUSH agent.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"Uhm … were there any female agents? Support staff? Secretaries?"

He frowned in thought, then nodded slowly. "Yes. There were. Some of the techs were women."

"Might wanta find 'em before you burn the place to the ground," she recommended.

"Burn?" Napoleon echoed.

"Better idea?"

"Burn," Illya agreed unexpectedly.

Napoleon looked from one to the other of his partners curiously. "I'll call for back up."

(Round Six A seems to be a draw.)

Round 6b

Cheri took a few minutes to get used to breathing again; occasionally choking up remnants of the goo she'd fallen into. As Napoleon and Illya watched her captor turned ally head off to round up his men and go locate the missing members of the project, they noted that there were quite a number of people who weren't apparently THRUSH personnel.

They exchanged a look between "huh?" and worried. Helping Cheri to her feet, Napoleon asked the obvious question. "Who are they?"

Cheri leaned against the railing and looked at him curiously. "What do you mean, who are they?" She spared a glance for the twenty or so men huddled at the far side of the room. There was something about the oddly fitting clothing and muttering that sounded warning bells in her head. The muttering had an odd susurration to it, as though it was more than just disgruntled bad guys discussing failure. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"That makes three of us. Let's get you out of here."

"Leave the burning to THRUSH?" she quipped with a chuckle that turned into another deep hacking coughing fit. She leaned heavily on both of them, movement splintering drying goo off her coat. "Coat. Off." she suggested, heaving in deeper breaths.

They took a moment to remove the encrusted and saturated coat, dropping it on the walkway before proceeding down the stairway. Cheri stopped at the stairs and looked at the vat. "Uhm, guys. Does that look more … well … liquid?"

Napoleon looked as well. It did. "Move." He was trying very hard to ignore the really peculiar bits of this assignment. It was moving fast enough that he wasn't getting time to think about what he was seeing and hearing. Just riding herd on his partners was keeping his mind occupied.

As they reached the bottom of the steps, the building shuddered. The THRUSH agent they recognized came herding his people out of a doorway and sent them running for the stairway up to ground level. Several of the others tried to catch and stop the fleeing personnel and were knocked aside for their effort. They went sprawling, revealing limb and facial deformities that made the eye flinch.

The THRUSH leader stopped as Napoleon reached him. "I've set the self destruct. Cordelia … The Satrap leader was insane, Mr. Solo. I'm destroying all of the experiments. I'd run if I were you." There was something in his voice and look that told Napoleon he was telling the truth.

He swooped Cheri up over his shoulder, gave Illya a shove toward the stairway and followed as swiftly as he could. Only Illya and Darnall's help kept him from tumbling back into the now exploding room below as the stairway collapsed below him. For sanity's sake, he shut out the screeching shrieks of the people still in the room. They had done nothing to save themselves, just continued that peculiar sibilant muttering as they were engulfed by the destruction of the installation.

The entire village shook as explosions went off in the underground rooms. Napoleon stopped to set Cheri on her feet. Both were looking toward the harbor as the abandoned houses and buildings began to collapse, many falling into the earth. Cheri's eyes widened as she took in the lack of masts where she had seen them before. She tugged on Illya's jacket, and pointed.

"Uhm – guys. The last time I saw something like that, it was really wet and really messy a few minutes later."

"Does the Atlantic have tsunamis?" Napoleon asked half rhetorically as he grabbed Cheri's hand and dove for the car. The THRUSH personnel were already running out of the town.

Cheri tugged back. "It won't work," she started to explain as Illya slid behind the wheel and turned the key. The engine came to life without hesitation. She gave the car a very old-fashioned look as she allowed Napoleon to bundle her into the back seat where she collapsed gratefully.

They sped past the still fleeing THRUSH people, noting that they were helping their weaker members, mostly haggard looking women, on their headlong rush out. A couple of trucks appeared off side streets, stopping long enough to gather up anyone who wanted a ride and then accelerating out of the village, up the slope to higher ground.

At the top of the rise, all three of the vehicles stopped, watching as a wall of water rose out at sea, a huge wave, cresting, slamming down into the harbor and then across the seawall into the fitfully burning remains of Innsmouth. The sea put out the fires, covering everything in the valley and then rushing up the slope toward the vehicles. It stopped about six feet below them, held and slowly began to recede back toward the harbor.

Cheri watched out the back window as the water took the town. She envisioned water pouring down into the room with the vat, the stuff that had tried to claim her life mixing with the salty water. The idea shook her. A vision of the entire area surfaced in that stuff made her shudder. Surely it couldn't make a transformation of that much seawater, could it? It was probably lucky that she was unaware of the same question running through the minds of Napoleon, Illya and Darnall at the same time.

For just a moment, her gaze met that of the man she called Darnall. His brows pulled downward as he looked at her, as though she triggered some sort of memory he couldn't quite pull up. She popped the back door and stuck her head out. "Hey." He looked at her again. "You're Royke Darnall, aren't you?"

Something flickered across his face before it became stone again. "No."

"No?" She considered her options. No point in annoying him, as he'd just helped them out. "Sorry. You bear a remarkable resemblance to him." She was distracted by another coughing fit dredging more gunk up out of her lungs. When she could breathe again, he was gone.

Napoleon and Illya climbed back into the car, Napoleon assuming the driving duties this time. Illya had resumed his usual inscrutable look, keeping his thoughts to himself. Napoleon was content not to discuss what had just happened. At Arkham, they made the decision to stop, get cleaned up, eat and get some rest before heading for Bangor and a flight back to New York. Cheri's cough was worrying the two men, although neither had said anything yet.

Illya made the hotel reservations for them. Napoleon's clothing still held the remnants of the stuff he dived into to rescue Cheri. He was freshly showered and shaved before she dragged herself out of the tub and wrapped up in the thick terry robe supplied by the management. Illya checked in on her before ordering room service for the three of them. He was shocked by how ill she looked.

"Probably just coming down with pneumonia. Who knows what was growing in that vat? Come to think of it, if anyone did, they're dead now. My lungs feel horrible. I'll survive." He pointed out a hospital might be a good idea. She demurred. "Food, a good night's sleep, I'll be fine. If I'm still feverish and coughing up gunk tomorrow, I'd rather see UNCLE Bangor and a hospital there, OK?"

Illya agreed, with unspoken reservations. While Innsmouth had disturbed him, he saw no reason to distrust the town of Arkham. This was a thriving university town, the least likely place to run into THRUSH intrusions. He shoved away memories of a couple of affairs that erupted on college campuses in the last few years. Disgruntled doctoral candidates did not seem particularly applicable in sleepy, dignified Arkham.


	4. Chapter 4

Round Seven

Napoleon awoke slowly, stretching and then snapped fully awake. He was still in the overstuffed chair he'd settled into for a couple of hours. Illya was asleep on one of the beds, fully clothed; stretched out on top of the covers. What the hell? He crossed the room and shook Illya awake before grabbing up the key to Cheri's room and heading across the hall.

Realizing that just bursting in on Cheri was a bad idea; he knocked on the door and listened for a response. For good measure, he knocked a second time and called her name. With no answer and no sound from beyond the door, he used his key and found she'd put the security chain on.

"Cheri!" His voice was sharp with concern.

"Hold on a minute!" She called from somewhere to his left. Her voice was stronger than it had been. He heard the soft pad of bare feet on carpet before she arrived. "Trying to break in?" she teased before pushing the door closed and removing the chain to admit him. Still wrapped in the fluffy white robe, she looked as though she felt a great deal better than she had the night before. "Good morning. You slept in your suit?" She sounded puzzled.

"How do you feel?"

"Fine. OK, the throat's sore from all the coughing and I think I bruised my diaphragm for the same reason. However, the breathing seems to be back to normal. How're you? I mean, you got the stuff all over you, too."

"Fine. Not a problem from it."

"Good. If we run into it again, don't inhale." Her advice struck her as humorous. "Oh, dear. I shouldn't laugh. It hurts. Breakfast before we leave?"

"Sounds like you really are better. Illya said you weren't hungry last night."

"Last night I was coughing up my lungs … or felt like it. Hard to eat when the system's that upset. Good morning, Mr. Kuryakin," she greeted Illya as he joined them.

He looked around the room curiously. "Good morning. You slept well?"

"Once I slept, yes." She punctuated her answer with a yawn. "I could probably use some more. Dibs on the back seat?"

"Certainly," Napoleon agreed, watching his partner sweep the room visually. "Why don't we get packed up and go find a restaurant?"

"Sure." Cheri was also watching Illya. "Uhm – If you're looking for THRUSH agents or strange people in my room, they're not here. Really." The chill of his look was practically physical. "What did I do now?" she demanded.

"Do?"

"Somewhere between the drapes and the vat of goo, you turned into an iceberg. Now, I realize I'm brand new and that this last little dust-up was a little weird, but I don't see anything to turn into an iceberg about."

"Who's Darnall?"

"I thought the guy I was dealing with yesterday was. I was apparently mistaken … or he lied. Being THRUSH, I'd suspect the latter."

"But who is he?" Napoleon followed up.

"High level THRUSH assassin. Or so I thought. Did some research. I like to know who I might face."

"You are an overachiever, aren't you?" Napoleon gentled the comment with a laugh. "Illya, let's get out of here. We're all on edge."

"With you in a few minutes." She politely shooed them out so she could change.

Napoleon and Illya pulled their own things together and handled check out. While they waited for her to join them at the car he asked Illya what was disturbing him. The Russian looked at him and shrugged his shoulders.

"Not going to wash. I want an answer. What do you know that I don't?"

It occurred to Illya that his partner was not going to let this go. "It's not what I know." He stopped and thought about what he wanted to say. "There is no author named Lovecraft."

"There isn't."

"Nyet." Why did he always get so Russian when he was in turmoil? "I looked."

"Where?"

"At the university library."

"You were expecting to find a reference to a pulp author at the university?"

Illya glared at him for the amusement in his voice, which netted a grin. "Where else would I find a reference?"

"Public library."

"You will see. When we get back, there is no Lovecraft."

Napoleon clicked the latches on his bag with a thoughtful look. "We could call the university here."

"The Miskatonic? What does that mean?"

"I think it's American Indian. Sounds like it. Here, there's a phone book." He pulled the slim volume from the nightstand next to the bed. "M … Matthews …. Merton … Here it is, Miskatonic University, Library." He set the open book down and dialed the number. "Hello. My name's Napoleon Solo …. Yes, it can be. Thank you. … I'm researching an author and a friend recommended that I try your library. He's a bit obscure. … Lovecraft. … I beg your pardon? You do? Prolific? Indeed. I was only aware of a couple of short items. … An entire section? Excellent. Thank you. You've been very … What was that? …. Ah, well. I'll certainly see that my recommendations are in order when I come in. Thank you very much for all your assistance, Miss .. Whately."

He looked at Illya as he returned the receiver to the cradle. "See. Lovecraft does exist. Mind you, he was apparently a collector of folk tales and recorder of very peculiar history."

There was a knock at the door. "I thought you were ready to go," Cheri called.

"We are," Napoleon confirmed, opening the door and ushering Illya out of the room. "We were delayed."

"Happens."

"By the way, what was that author fellow's name again?"

"Lovecraft. Howard Philips Lovecraft."

"And you said he wrote fiction?"

"Yes …" she looked at him oddly as she answered. "As far as I'm aware, he wrote a quantity of original weird fiction and died around 1938. You've discovered something else about him?"

"It wasn't fiction."

She stopped. It took a minute for her to turn and look at him again. "What do you mean, "It wasn't fiction."?"

Round 8

Cheri turned to look at her companions. "Try that again?"

"A True Account of the Horror at Dunwich," he repeated the title he was given.

She blinked. "And you think King James the First of England's "Demonology" is real?"

That caught him. "You're saying he's recounting mythology?"

"Have you read the book?"

"No. The library here seems to think he's non-fiction."

She laughed at that. "OK, my categorizing him as fiction may have been my understanding of his not recounting the real world as I understand it. Although, I suspect very few people read his works as reporting reality, y'know."

"Beowulf was regarded as reality in it's day," Illya chimed in, sounding tired. "A lot of people regard the Arthurian legends as reality, even though the information given by each author or tale teller conflicts."

"You're supporting me?" She sounded surprised.

"I do not wish to believe there was a horror at … Dunwich? that was not of human origin."

"I am so with you on that," Cheri agreed. "So, while the Miskatonic may categorize Lovecraft as "non-fiction", I'm not willing to make that leap. Especially considering his general subject matter. Euw."

"I'll buy breakfast," Napoleon offered, conceding that this particular revelation had fallen flat. He missed the troubled look that crossed her face as they exited the building.

Breakfast went without a hitch, after which, having paid their hotel bill, they piled into the car and sped toward Bangor and a flight home. They arrived in New York to discover that Cheri's baggage had apparently headed somewhere other than Idlewild.

She countered their looks with, "Hey, you were at the counter when they tagged it."

Napoleon sighed in agreement. "They lose luggage all the time. We'll fill out a lost luggage report. It should get back to you."

Illya muttered something in Russian.

"And just how would I have done that?" she demanded. "Forgot I'm fluent in Russian, right?" He gave her a darkling look. "I did not switch tags. There is nothing in my luggage I didn't want coming back here. You have a problem with me, you face me with it."

"You know too much. You're too practiced. You're lying," he challenged.

"You have an inflated ego and you're just jealous of a younger agent," she shot back, considering sticking out her tongue at him for emphasis, which gave her the giggles as she suddenly saw how foolish this argument was. "I'm sorry," she apologized through the giggling. "This is just silly. I'm simply very good at what I do, just like you and Solo are. I have incredible aptitudes. So did the two of you. And how much esoteric knowledge do the two of you carry around in your heads? Huh? To normal people, we're all overachievers in a very rarified area."

"You're 26. You have joint bachelors in Anthropology and History. Where did you find the time to learn to shoot? To use explosives?"

"I'm talented and brilliant. What more could you want? I'm not a THRUSH agent," she assured him yet again. "Illya, I grew up on a farm. Papa taught me how to shoot. And what not to do with dynamite. Both of which come in handy …. Especially the what not to do," she ended giggling again. "I'm gonna go report my luggage …"

"What makes you look like that?"

"I was remembering what she told me at the school."

Napoleon frowned, trying to remember what she might have said and when. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. "What?"

"'I'm 102, born in an alternate universe and off and on covert for 70 years'." He paraphrased, trying to think of something rude to finish off with and failing.

Napoleon did a quick mental calculation. "That would put her birth about 1865."

Illya rounded on his partner with an epithet in Chinese. "She is not 102."

"And we didn't just almost get killed by people who were using THRUSH for their own ends," Napoleon said softly. Dark eyes met blue for a moment before Illya looked back down the concourse at Cheri's rapidly diminishing figure.

Illya did not like what he was thinking." We need more information."

"Lovecraft?"

"We start there." Cheri was hiding something and he was gong to figure out what it was.

**Round 9**

Cheri entered the lost luggage office to find absolutely no one in attendance. Presuming that someone would return shortly, she inspected the desk, located the appropriate form and filled it in. She was just signing off when a harried young woman dashed into the office apologizing profusely.

Cheri took in the hands deftly tucking her official tailored shirt into her equally official skirt and suppressed a grin. "Here. I filled it out while I waited."

"Oh … Hell. I am sorry. I was just … I mean .." she blushed.

"Assisting another flier to locate luggage?" Cheri supplied helpfully. The blush deepened. "Look, it's none of my business what you were doing. I'd advise not letting your libido interfere with work, but other than that, girl, what you do is up to you."

That got a laugh. "You sound like a Cosmo girl."

"Not quite. Just a little advanced in my notions of appropriate conduct. I did mean it about not letting it get in the way. No one is worth losing a job over. I don't care how charming or coercive he, she or it may be. The job comes first. I speak from observation. I have a friend with the same drives. Channel it into the job first; play hard on your own time. It's amazing what you can do if you just remember that."

The woman tucked an escaped curl back into her elegant French twist, light hazel eyes regarding her customer thoughtfully. "You're serious."

"Yep. It's one of those little tips that most businessmen who are successful don't pass on. After all, if the up and comers can't control their desires, they don't deserve the brass ring …."

"Damn. Never thought of it that way." She scanned the form in her hand. "Looks like you've been through this before. Travel a lot?"

"Yes, to the latter. Mostly I just read the form and answered the questions."

"You'd be surprised how many people don't - or won't. Well, I'll keep an eye out for your bag, Miss … " She stopped when faced with the name.

"Yuconovich. Strange what Ellis Island did to some people's family names."

"Yuconovich," she repeated. "Russian?"

"In a made up sort of way. Papa was. Maman was French. I was born here."

"Cool. I'll keep an eye out for you bag, Miss Yuconovich. I'll be in touch."

"Thank you, Miss .."

She looked down and discovered her nametag was missing. "Elkins," she finished, holding out her hand. "Kim Elkins."

Cheri shook the offered hand and left, her mind reeling a trifle. Well, damn, she thought. Kim's the same everywhere. She was chuckling as she rejoined Illya and Napoleon as their baggage was loaded into the trunk of a waiting taxi.

"Something amusing?"

"Miss Elkins is a very nice lady. She handles the lost luggage office here." She looked up at Napoleon. "You might like her."

"Great personality?"

"Probably. I was thinking more along the lines of killer figure, lovely face, curly hair that escapes from her up-do and apparently a libido that needs more exercise than it's getting at the moment." She considered for a moment. "Possibly more to her than meets the eye. No, she's not a THRUSH agent either," she ended in a stage whisper and a chuckle.

Round 10

The trio met in Mr. Waverly's office for debriefing. It was generally conceded that whatever the THRUSH Satrap leader had been up to, those members of her crew who escaped were probably not responsible for her actions. As to half-seen denizens of the officially deserted fishing village and possible interpretations of whether THRUSH was responsible for perceived deformities, there was no evidence left to make a determination.

The goo on Napoleon's clothing was inconclusive, the main ingredient being a relative of the mucus found on a variety of ocean denizens from mollusks to cephalopods. None of the agents had a theory to offer as to why there was a vat of this substance in the installation, or exactly what THRUSH, or the Satrap head, thought they were going to do with it.

Neither of the two agents coming into close contact with the substance seemed to be suffering any ill effects. Medical gave Cheri a clean bill of health with no left over effects they could detect from her brush with death by drowning in the stuff. Her mentors might have had reservations about Medical's evaluation, but they refrained from voicing them.

All in all, they learned very little, disposed of a THRUSH leader and were not instrumental in destroying a ghost town. As to the apparently localized tsunami that washed most of the remains of the town out to sea, no one had an explanation. UNCLE's top geologists were evaluating the data from the agents and exploring possibilities along the Northeastern coast without much success.

The agents retired to Napoleon and Illya's shared office to run through post-assignment paperwork. The discussion of the assignment was desultory, Cheri making notes on a legal pad while Napoleon mused. Illya was conspicuously silent as he filled in forms and signed off.

Cheri broke into his silence. "So, what do you think? Oh, dour Russian accented one?" For just a moment as his very icy gaze met hers she wished she'd kept her mouth shut. Nothing to do but brazen it out now. "Oh, come on. There is no way I could have had anything to do with that."

"I wasn't accusing …."

"No, you're just using the ice prince glare to cut me down," she shot back, cutting off whatever he was going to say. "Look, I'm tired of the glare. I'm tired of the distrust. You have something to say, let's get it out in the open. All of it, not just the "Lovecraft didn't write fiction" stupidity."

Napoleon opened his mouth and closed it again. Much as he didn't want a fight between these two, he was curious about Illya's animosity, so he kept out of it for now. He could always intervene if it came to blows.

"Cheri Christiana Yuconovich, born 1902 in Rouen, France. Died 1913."

To both men's amazement, she burst out laughing. "Oh, that's good. Let's see, 1902 to 1913 … She was 11. If she was still alive she'd be … what? 65? Do I look 65?" Before either could answer, she ploughed on; "No, I don't. Or, if I do, it's because of that goo I fell into. For heaven's sake, didn't the obvious occur to you?"

Blank looks rewarded her.

"I'm 27. I was born in 1940. My father was Russian, with a distinct reason, whatever it was, for not using his family name when he arrived in this country." She looked at the two men expecting them to figure it out. "He was an illegal immigrant. I've always figured he was some sort of political dissident who just up and left the country. Maman's passport was real, his was forged. I always figured he just picked a name. I mean, come on, Piotr Christian Yuconovich? Come home, gentlemen … We lived in the same area. Maybe my parents liked the name? I dunno. But my birth is duly registered."

"December 21, 1940. You're namesake has the same birthdate."

"You're kidding …" Her eyes reflected a feeling of startlement. "You're not kidding? Wow. I didn't know that." She gave a shiver. "That is creepy. Mind you, it would be just like Maman to do something that off …"

"It would?" Napoleon asked curiously.

With a sigh, she nodded. "Yeah. Maman was never exactly what I'd call right in the head. She adored Papa. I think she had kids because he wanted he died, she walked out leaving my older sister with a 13 year old and a 2 year old to deal with."

"How'd he die?"

"Accident." She blinked to clear her eyes of the tears that still came. "Sorry. I was very close to my Dad. Maman cleared the bank account and left. Su was 18."

"That's rough," he agreed softly looking back at Illya. There was no softening of the look.

"Good story."

She gave him a look that spoke volumes in several languages, then shook her head and threw up her hands. "Whatever," she delivered in her best Valley Girl imitation and turned her attention fully to Napoleon. "Are we through with the post-action analysis?"

He checked his notes and nodded. "Yes."

"May I be excused? I'd like lunch."

"Of course." He watched her walk out, then turned to his partner who was scowling. "You got a reasonable explanation."

"But not the truth."

"You still think she's a THRUSH mole?"

"No."

Napoleon felt his jaw drop. "Then what?"

Illya slumped in his chair. "I don't know. She just … rubs me the wrong way?" He considered his reactions for a moment, shaking his head. "There is something wrong. She's still too good to be true."

"Then we'll be there when it falls apart."

End of Assignment.


End file.
